Recipe for Disaster
by KateBishop
Summary: We all know about Eowyn's terrible stew...but what if she made it like that on purpose? Faramir gets a taste... Faramir/Eowyn


It was three weeks after Faramir and Éowyn's wedding, and Éowyn was in the kitchen, cooking something very, very special.

She bustled around the room, adding spices, milk, water. All sorts of thing went into the pot. She sniffed it, gently wafting the scent of the food to her nose. She smiled at its perfect smell. It was exactly what she was hoping for.

The stew was flawless.

Carefully, she ladled a generous amount of her masterpiece into a bowl. On a plate, she placed a few slices of fresh bread.

She filled her bowl with the cook's chicken broth.

Éowyn balanced Faramir's bowl on the plate of bread, then picked up the chicken broth with her other hand.

Faramir was already seated when she walked through the kitchen's swinging doors, food balanced precariously in her hands, but he jumped up to help her, taking the stew and bread. He kissed her lightly on the cheek, then set his food on the table. Éowyn laid her bowl at her place, along with a handful of cutlery she had grabbed from a wandering servant, and smiled as Faramir pecked her lightly on the cheek.

"I made this potato stew by myself, just for you!" Internally, Éowyn cursed. She sounded much too happy-go-lucky.

But Faramir responded with a warm laugh. "Thank you, my lady. I am thankful that you would use your time for me." The White Lady beamed at her husband, and sat down. Dipping her spoon into her broth, she glanced at Faramir out of the corner of her eye.

As soon as the first lump hit his tongue, his face contorted: his eyes squeezing shut, nose clenching, lips pursing. Éowyn swallowed a giggle and looked up innocently from her bowl.

"Is everything alright, _*elvish for 'my love' here* _?"

Faramir choked down the unidentifiable foodstuff. "This…is…amazing…" he sputtered, and Éowyn hid her grin behind her hand.

"I worked so long, and I'm so glad you like it," Éowyn gushed happily. She made as if to stand up. "I'll get you some more!"

Faramir nearly choked again. "Oh, that's alright. I'm not that hungry. I'll just eat a little more of this...delicious…stew, then I'll be alright," he said desperately. As his wife sat back down, Faramir stuffed a piece of bread in his mouth to diminish the dreadful taste of Éowyn's concoction.

Pitying her husband, Éowyn made an excuse about meeting Arwen and left the table so that Faramir could dispose of the stew in peace.

The instant the large double doors had closed, Faramir slid out of his seat and frantically shoved the bowl in the face of his favorite hound. The grey dog delicately sniffed the bowl with her wet nose, but turned away with a whimper.

"I know, Aranel, I know. But we can't have Éowyn being all angry because I told her that her stew was so foul."

The dog whined in agreement.

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Éowyn struggled to keep her laughter contained. But when she reached the hall near her room, the giggles bubbled out.

A dark haired woman peered out from a nearby door.

"What is so amusing, Lady Éowyn?" Arwen inquired.

Éowyn tried to suppress her laughter, but failed. "Oh, Arwen!" she chuckled. "I have just done to most wonderful thing!"

Dragging the elf behind her, Éowyn made for the small spinning room near her chambers, one that Faramir would never venture into. The quiet _clicks_ and _clacks _of looms and spindles distracted the workers, diverting their curiosity from the queen and Éowyn.

"I made Faramir dinner."

Arwen was confused. "How does this make you laugh so?"

Eyes sparkling, Éowyn added: "It was horrid."

"My mother taught me how to do this when I was just a young girl. A girl needs a man, and a man loves food, does he not? So my mother taught me how to make stew.

"It's quite simple, actually. Potatoes, meat, water, spices, milk, flour. But in order to see how chivalrous or truth-telling a man is, you….tweak the recipe slightly.

"Potatoes five days old. Overcooked, tasteless meat. Dirty lake water or salty ocean water. Too much or not enough spices. Curdled milk. Low quality flour.

"Aragorn tried it. It wasn't much of a surprise when he politely ate it, and complimented me on its flavor…although his grin of 'this is good' actually looked more like a grimace. That was before I met Faramir…"

A faint smile had appeared on Arwen's face. "If even Aragorn Elessar II cannot eat this stew of yours, Lady, then you must truly be the worst cook in all of Middle-Earth!"

Éowyn grinned back. "Perhaps…perhaps."

Ed' i'ear ar' elenea! "by the seas and stars!"

Mani naa tanya "What is that?"

#insults


End file.
